


All I've Ever Known Is How To Hold My Own, But Now I Want To Hold You, Too

by gay_writes_with_mac



Series: Rositara [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rescue Missions, Slow Romance, Survivor Guilt, Tara's not dead and you can fight me on that, Torture, background Magna/Yumiko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21992884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_writes_with_mac/pseuds/gay_writes_with_mac
Summary: Ten people went missing from the fair. Nine heads were found on the pikes. Somewhere out there, Tara is still alive - but for how long?Back at the Kingdom, Rosita is already gathering an army to get her back. But Tara is in the clutches of the Whisperers, a people who have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Rosita is determined to save her, but at what cost?
Relationships: Magna/Yumiko (Walking Dead), Tara Chambler/Rosita Espinosa
Series: Rositara [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629475
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

When they discovered Tara was missing, Rosita’s stomach dropped into her knees and she had to cling to the nearest arm - Eugene’s - to keep from fainting.

But when Daryl grimly reported that Tara’s head wasn’t among the pikes, she really did fall, barely caught by Gabriel.

Tara wouldn’t have just wandered off, not so soon after taking the reins at Hilltop. That they can all agree on. The Whisperers have her, and when Siddiq regains consciousness, he confirms it. His story is confused, blurred by terror, but Tara was there. He might have seen her dragged away before Alpha pinned him to the tree. But he might have seen a lot of things.

“She’s probably dead,” Gabriel says mournfully, staring into the crackling fire. “Why would they keep her alive?”

“They would have beheaded her if she was dead,” Rosita insists, folding her arms protectively over the ever-so-slight swell of her belly. “They’ve got her. They’re probably trying to get information out of her.”

“Tara wouldn’t tell them anything,” Carol murmurs, her face grim as she stares into the fireplace with puffy red eyes. “She wouldn’t.”

“So she’s running out of time.”

Rosita barely whispers it, clinging desperately to the hope that somewhere out there, Tara is still breathing. “If she won’t talk, they’ll kill her. Soon. They’re probably torturing her right now.”

“How do we know she ain’t gonna break?” Daryl mutters gruffly, his arm still around Carol. “She’s tough, sure, but the Whisperers don’t fuck around.”

“We’ll get her back before she does,” Rosita snaps back, pulling herself off the floor. “I’ll take a group into the woods, go after them. We get in, cause a distraction, find Tara, and get out.”

“They’ll know it was us,” Gabriel interjects, turning to face her, his good eye dark with worry. “They’ll want revenge. They’ll kill more. Many more.” 

“Not if we take them out first.” Rosita’s boots click against the floor as she paces the room, the cogs spinning in her brain. “We go in, take the element of surprise, and blow the camp. They started a war, and now we can finish it.”

“And the herd? That means nothing to you?” Gabriel shakes his head, extending a hand towards her. “Even if we take out every Whisperer - and there’s enough of them that that’s no guarantee - the herd will take down the walls and then we’ll die with them. Come on, Rosita...think of our baby.”

“There’s no  _ our  _ in this!” Rosita snaps, whirling on him, her vision tinted red with anger. Because  _ dammit,  _ Tara is in the hands of the most brutal enemy they’ve dealt with yet, almost certainly being tortured for information about the communities she’ll never betray. They may even be planning to kill her now, to spear her head on a pike and let her turn. Rosita swore to Tara she’d never let her turn, that she’d put her down herself if that ever happened. “If you won’t help me, I’ll get her myself.”

“That’s not happening,” Michonne says firmly, staring into the glowing coals. “We’re not leaving Tara to die. But we’re not going to be stupid either. Rosita, you know how to handle bombs. Do you think you could make some?”

“ _ Make  _ a bomb?” Rosita shakes her head, laughing bitterly. Gabriel is still staring at her - staring at her stomach, more like - and she ignores him pointedly, fixing her gaze on Michonne. “Not alone. Maybe if Eugene helped me, but it’d take days to do that. She doesn’t have that kind of time, and the blast could kill her anyway.”

“Bomb’s not for the Whisperers,” Michonne answers, shaking her hair back from her face. “We go in, finish them, take Tara. Then we blow the herd.”

“With what Daryl described…” Rosita bites her lip, leaning against the wall. “Maybe. It’s possible. But we’re talking H-bomb kind of shit here. Like I said, she doesn’t have that kind of time.”

“What if we lit ‘em up?” Daryl grunts, scraping his boots thoughtfully against the floor. “Drenched a few of ‘em on the edges in gasoline and dropped some torches?”   
  


“”S worth a shot,” Carol murmurs, and Rosita doesn’t like the deadness in her eyes. “As long as we can control the blaze…”

“Which we can’t,” Gabriel finishes grimly. “Any way we do this, people die. A lot of them.”

“So we leave her to die?” Rosita snaps, whirling on him again. “We leave Tara - who helped save  _ your _ life, if you even remember that - to be tortured to death by people who wear walker skins like Halloween masks? We just leave her there to have her head lopped off and stuck on a pike to turn? Because maybe you can live with that, but I can’t.”

“Rosita.” Michonne raises a hand, her voice cool and even. “He’s not the enemy. Save it for the Whisperers. Gabriel, we’re not leaving her. That’s the only thing that’s off the table.”

“Could we give ‘em the girl?” Aaron looks up from his corner, his hands tracing the frayed denim from the rips in his jeans. “Lydia? Make a trade?”

“Not an option,” Daryl grunts instantly, and the way his hand brushes over the handle of his knife is enough to silence that idea. 

“Perhaps we can make peace,” Ezekiel suggests, even as the fading tracks of tears glimmer in the flickering light of the fire on his cheeks. “Make a deal. Trade food, weapons, medicine for Tara?”   
  


“They’re not like that.” Rosita shakes her head grimly, staring at the glowing embers in the fire. “They don’t want to work with us. They’re obsessed with being natural, with living as the dead. They don’t do  _ trade.  _ They’ll wring whatever they can get out of Tara and kill her in cold blood, probably dump her body outside the Hilltop to send a message. If we’re getting her back, it’s gonna be by force.”

Michonne shakes her head, turning to Daryl. “Talk to Lydia. Find out what you can about these people, about the layout of their camp. We need to gather weapons and fighters, as many as we have. Our only chance is to storm them, hit them hard, and...we have to take out the herd. Without the herd, we can take them easily.”

“I’ll lead a raid,” Rosita volunteers instantly, fingers dancing over the handle of her machete. “I’m quiet. I’ll take a group in, fight my way to Tara, and get her out, hopefully without them noticing. We can rendezvous back at Alexandria, that’s where the best clinic is.”

“Clinic?” Daryl jerks his head up, stringy dark hair hanging in his eyes. “She’s gonna wanna go to Hilltop-”

“She’s gonna be in bad shape,” Rosita interrupts, her mind taking leave of the dull meeting room to pull her back to the day she met Tara. Her hair had been so much shorter then, and she’d practically been shaking with fear when their truck rumbled up. Even washed-out and terrified, the mischievous light gleaming in her eyes had been impossible to miss. And then she’d fallen, her bad leg giving out on her, and she’d insisted she could keep going, dragging it behind her until she could barely move. Rosita had taken her weight then, pulled Tara’s arm around her shoulders and helped her forward before she could protest, hiding a smile at her poorly-stifled sigh of relief as some of the burden lifted on her bad leg. 

All she can dream of doing is helping her one more time.

“Really bad shape,” she adds, snapping back to the present in a flash. “We don’t know what they’ve been doing to her, but we do know that they’re not concerned about damage. We can patch her up at Alexandria and re-evaluate from there.”

“Okay.” Michonne rocks back onto her heels, stoking the fire absent-mindedly. As Rick’s partner and first choice of succession, they all look to her now that he’s gone. Rosita hasn’t always agreed with her, but her judgement is always well-considered, and she has to admit, Michonne is almost definitely the calmest person in the room at the moment. “Take who you want, Rosita. Anyone who can fight. Daryl and I will take care of the herd, with Eugene’s help. The number one priority is Tara. But the second...take out Alpha. If it’s at all possible. I want her dead.”

Rosita nods, grasping the handle of her machete. “Aaron, Carol? You in?”

Aaron nods silent assent. He’s always been dependable. Carol turns her head slowly, fresh tears glimmering in her eyes. Something twinges in Rosita’s chest at the realization that this is the fifth child she’s lost. But she can’t weaken now, and she needs Carol’s expertise on what may be the most critical mission of her life. “We lost nine good people today. People we cared about, people we  _ loved.  _ And I know it’s shitty,  _ trust me,  _ I know. But it doesn’t have to be ten. And I need your skills if we’re gonna do this. Please, Carol?”

Silence for a moment in the room. Then Carol dips her head, and Rosita almost feels a wordless understanding pass between them. “Thank you.”

Then she turns and leaves, the cold winter air a shock to her system after the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. That’s something else she hadn’t considered; Tara wouldn’t have been wearing anything more than a light jacket, assuming the Whisperers didn’t strip her clothes for themselves, and the Virginia winter is vicious. Hypothermia could kill her before Alpha does.

“Rosita!” She whips around at her name, dark hair flying into her face, to be met with Gabriel at the threshold of the meeting room, jaw clenched sternly as he stares her down. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m going,” Rosita replies stubbornly, folding her arms almost subconsciously over her stomach. “I have to save her, you know I do.”

“I know you want her safe, but it doesn’t need to be you, it shouldn’t be,” Gabriel protests, rushing over to her despite how she steps away as he approaches. “Aaron can lead-”

“Aaron’s a good man, but he’s not a leader,” Rosita insists stiffly, jerking her shoulder away from his heavy hand. “I’m doing this. Don’t try to stop me. It’ll only waste your breath.”

“Rosita, it’s freezing out, and it’s going to be dangerous, people could  _ die,  _ and you’re carrying our baby-”

“I thought I told you,” she snaps, and the words taste bitter on her tongue as she spits out what she’s been mulling over for weeks now. “There’s no  _ our  _ in this. This is  _ my  _ baby, and right now, I’m choosing a world with no Whisperers in it for them. And you can try to stop me all you want, but it’s  _ over,  _ and this isn't your baby. It never was.”

He jerks back like he’s been slapped, his mouth half-open like he’s expecting her to laugh at any moment, to tell him that her rejection is some big joke, to swoon into his arms and promise to stay with him forever and give him a baby. But she doesn’t flinch, arms folded protectively over her belly, and after a moment, he stumbles away, shaking his head to himself and mumbling, probably sulking. 

She doesn’t care. The Band-Aid has been ripped off. She’s been thinking about Gabriel almost since she knew she was pregnant, lying awake at night wondering if this is the man she wants her child to know as  _ father.  _ And now she knows he isn’t. His words confirmed it just now, the way he talked about her as if she were a commodity, a walking uterus to deliver the child he likes to fancy is his. 

The way Tara’s face lit up when Rosita told her enters her mind, a gentle tugging on her heartstrings at the memory of her friend going out on a run and returning with an extra bag, loaded with baby clothes from the closest department store, diapers - Rosita doesn’t know how Tara got disposable diapers and she’s not sure she wants to, she’s just eternally grateful - and a small pink rattle she must have salvaged from the scrap pile in the woods. She’d tackled Tara in a hug; she’d been terrified her longest remaining friend wouldn’t understand, would maybe even judge her for getting knocked up in a world like this, but she knew her fears had been baseless as soon as she saw that rattle. 

Different images flood to her head then, and they’re not memories, and not nearly so pleasant. A spray of blood, a jagged stick, and Tara screaming, screaming like Rosita’s never heard her scream before, pleading for mercy-

And then she’s back in the semi-twilight in the deceptively tranquil fields of the Kingdom, shivering slightly in the winter chill, alone under a vast expanse of stars.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She adds to her group as quickly as she can, refusing to shy away from knocking on doors. Convincing people to go is no trouble. As soon as she says Tara’s name, they’re already reaching for weapons, faces set like stones. That’s just the effect Tara has on people - has always had on people. Everyone remembers a time that Tara was there for them, as their leader or simply as a friend.

Rosita vaguely wishes she could have a legacy like that as she sharpens the blade of her machete.

In the end, she rounds up Dianne, Jerry, Magna, Yumiko, Aaron, Carol, and Cyndie, as well as handfuls of additional fighters from each group whose names she hasn’t learned or can’t recall. It’s not a lot, she has to admit, surveying her hastily-gathered militia. It’ll have to be enough.

As an afterthought, she packs a small bag with blankets, one of her own thicker jackets, a fresh water bottle, and a small bottle of painkillers, strapping it close to her back. The basics she might need to keep Tara going long enough to get her back to Alexandria. 

“So what’s the plan?” Yumiko questions, slinging her bow over her shoulder. “Just charge in there and start shooting?”

“Basically,” Rosita answers, testing the tip of her blade on the pad of her index finger. It cuts through the flesh like wax, a droplet of crimson blood dripping from the tip. “I’ll take care of Tara. That’s the most important thing. But if we can get Alpha, if there’s even a chance...we have to take it.”

Nods all around. Rosita resheathes her machete, motioning her motley army forwards. “Right then. Let’s roll.”

As she strides out of the Kingdom’s gates, she catches a glimpse of Gabriel watching her sorrowfully, tears glimmering in his dark eyes as he gazes after her. She doesn’t spare him a second glance. She doesn’t need to.

The moon is their only light as they slip through the woods, careful to move as soundlessly as possible. Even with caution, a large group makes a lot of noise on forest floor, and every twig snapping and leaf crunching sends a chill down Rosita’s spine.  _ Someone just stepped on my grave,  _ her  _ abuela _ would have called it. 

They all seem to pause for a moment at the pikes. No words pass between them. They put down the zombified heads and returned them home for burial, but bits of gore and blood still stain the wooden stakes, some still damp and glistening in the pale moonlight. Rosita swallows hard as she pauses by the pike that held Enid’s decapitated head, a lump building in her throat at the thought that it could have been Tara on one of these pikes.

It’s too awful to think about and so Rosita turns her thoughts to the layout of the Whisperers camp Daryl gave her, courtesy of Lydia. If she knows anything about these people, they won’t be making any secret of their prisoner - or what they’re doing to her. She’ll probably be in the center of the camp, most likely bound, where all can see what happens to those who cross Alpha.

That makes sneaking her out challenging.

Gradually, the noise level begins to pick up, but only slightly. The Whisperers truly do know how to blend in among the dead. Only a few patches of glowing coals to combat the cold of winter give away the presence of a camp at all.

Yumiko clambers up into a tree to get a better view of what they’re looking at, leaving the rest in a clump at the base of the oak, waiting in silence with bated breath for her return. Magna’s eye twitches with the urge to fidget, staring nervously up into the branches at the edge of Yumiko’s jacket fluttering in the breeze. Rosita clutches the handle of her machete, her fingers itching to draw it, to slash and stab and kill, to exact payment in blood for the nine gory heads impaled on pikes and left to turn. She wants someone to hurt for this. But that’s not what she’s here for. She’s here for Tara, not for revenge, and the idea of Tara being tortured is the only thing that gives her restraint as she fights the urge to shuffle in the leaves, waiting for the archer to clamber down.

Finally, she does, dropping soundlessly onto the forest floor. “Twenty or thirty,” she murmurs, knuckles white on her bow. “Armed, most if not all. And...I saw Tara.”

“Where?” Rosita hisses instantly, the mention of Tara sparking a small flame of hope in her chest. “Where is she?”   
  


“Right in the middle,” Yumiko breathes, drawing an arrow in preparation. “They’ve got her tied to a tree. It looked - I don’t think she was conscious, or at least not fully. Are you sure you can get her on your own…?”   
  


“I’m sure,” Rosita swears, drawing her machete from its sheath. “Let’s do this now. We’re running out of time.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She barely seems to breathe as she clings white-knuckled to a low-hanging tree branch, gazing through the rough cover of bushes and plants, desperate for even a glimpse of Tara, the slightest indication that her heart is still beating. The others slipped away to set up a distraction, draw the worst of the guards away to buy Rosita time to cut her free. So she’s alone with Magna, armed with two short knives, one in each hand, light brown hair hanging over one eye. 

She’s never spoken more than a few words to the former loner, and none of them particularly friendly. Tense silence fills the void between them as she gazes through the overgrowth, scanning the shadowy camp for her friend.

“So, you and Tara, huh?” Rosita whips around at that to see Magna leaning against the oak, sharpening one of her knives against the trunk. 

“Excuse me?” Rosita manages stiffly. Whatever Magna’s getting at, her tone implies she’s thinking of something more than friendship.

“Please.” The other girl rolls her eyes, and Rosita realizes for the first time how  _ young  _ she is - early twenties at the latest. “You’re out here freezing your ass off for her, I heard you dump your preacher man for trying to stop you, and you stare at her like she’s the fucking sun.” 

Rosita bites her lip at that, more memories rushing back at her words, memories of a very different kind than the ones visiting her before coming to the camp. Memories from the time of the Saviors, maybe a month after Tara found out about Denise. Memories of secret meetings in Rosita’s miserably empty bed, of hurried hookups just outside the walls as evening fell. It fell apart eventually, and with it the closeness they’d shared before, but she can still taste Tara on her tongue, can still feel her warm breath sending sparks shooting under her skin. “That was a long time ago.”

“Except it’s not,” Magna argues, and though she still doesn’t meet her eyes, hidden behind her hair, her voice softens slightly. “Listen, there was something when we were out there alone...a group of guys we were having trouble with grabbed Yumiko, took all her shit and dragged her back to their camp for a little fun. And I was...well, pretty much how you are now. Sad stare and all of it.”

Rosita cracks a brief smile, pushing a braid behind her shoulder. “So you and her are…?”   
  


“Yeah,” Magna mumbles, still studying her blade. “I got her back, obviously. And we’re gonna get Tara back too. We are.”

Rosita opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, a signal flare screeches into the sky, shooting a trail of sparks in its wake. Mid-arc, the flaming flare explodes into a million wailing pieces, shooting more sparks across the sky.

“That’s our cue,” Magna announces, and for the first time, Rosita gets a look at her hidden eye as she pushes off the tree, slipping a knife into each palm. Behind them, feet brushing across earth as a pack of Whisperer guards move out, shuffling like the dead in the direction of the flare. “Let’s roll.”

And then she’s shoving through the undergrowth, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Rosita plunges after her, following her black leather jacket towards the patches of glowing coals.

Maybe five of the Whisperers went in search of the source of the flare, leaving her and her group at least fifteen left to handle. Out of the corner of her eye, Rosita spots Alpha rising from beside the fire, her face twisted with rage as she reaches by her side. But the Whisperers don’t use guns, and the element of surprise is a powerful thing. As their opponents scramble for blades, they attack swiftly and viciously, fueled by the desire for revenge. Rosita charges past Yumiko perched on a boulder, nocking an arrow in the direction of Alpha, past Carol charging a Whisperer with a scream of rage and grief, past Jerry, his usual good-natured grin replaced with a twisted scowl, towards a tree directly in the center of camp.

She’s still nearly twenty feet away when her path is blocked by a hulking Whisperer armed with a stick sharpened to a jagged point, growling with rage. Rosita doesn’t slow down, charging forwards with her knuckles clenched white around her machete. He meets her in the middle with a thrust from the stick. She ducks at the last minute, the wicked edge scraping over her shoulder, barely missing her skull. Hissing in pain as blood sprays from the wound, flecking her face with warm wetness, she slashes with the machete, lopping off the end of the stick easily. His face starts to round in surprise, but before he can recover, she thrusts it into his neck, ripping clean through his jugular. More hot scarlet shoots from the wound, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, drenching her face and shirt in crimson. Rosita lets him crumple to his knees, clutching futilely at the fountain of lifeblood as she vaults nimbly over his shoulder, spitting the salty, metallic tang of his blood from her mouth.

Screams echo from around the camp, echoing through the woods along with the clang of blade against blade. Rosita winces at the cacophony of battle, ducking under an outstretched arm as she rushes towards the towering oak tree. That’s something else she failed to consider - the noise will draw real walkers, and she has to get Tara out and well on the way to Alexandria by then, or the dead will devour them both.

She crashes to her knees by the roots of the tree, and a weak moan from the other side immediately sends a rush of hope flooding to her chest. Already groping for the ropes, she clambers over the undulating roots to Tara’s side.

Her friend is bound to the tree by thick ropes around her waist, her arms pinned behind her back. And those ropes seem to be the only thing holding her up, her head slumped forward. Rosita cups a hand under her chin, lifting her head to be met with a mess of bruises and gashes, blood oozing from a deep cut in her hairline. One of Tara’s eyes is swollen shut, pus and tears leaking from the sliver of her eye still visible. A hunk of her dark hair is missing, most likely ripped from her head, and her shirt and skin alike are crusted with rusty dried blood and filth. Even too weak to lift her head, she manages a weak smile, revealing a split lip and a missing front tooth, more blood staining her teeth. “You coming to save me, gorgeous?” she mumbles, and the old nickname irrationally sends heat rushing to Rosita’s cheeks. “Knew you’d come...knew you’d find me.”

“You think you can walk if I help you?” Rosita asks, sawing at the ropes around her waist with the dripping machete. “I think you can probably tell that we need to get out of here.”

“Mm-mm.” Tara moans as Rosita’s hand brushes against her back, and when she pulls away, it comes back bloody. “They found out my leg was bad...my knee’s shot, maybe for life…”

Rosita glances down, and even in the pale moonlight, she can see that Tara’s leg has been crushed, more blood oozing from the wound, hints of bone shining through the wreck of torn flesh. “Shit,” she mutters to herself, sawing through the last of the ropes. “Let me get your hands.”

Tara leans forward willingly to expose her tied wrists, and the moonlight illuminates her back as she does, revealing a bloody mess of whip marks, her shirt torn to shreds. “God…” Rosita breathes, hacking through the last of the rope. “Okay. Okay. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, I know it is, but I need you to walk with me, just into the woods, okay? I’ll help as much as I can, but I can’t carry you…”

She swallows hard, biting her lip the same way she always has when she’s nervous, and then nods stiffly, gritting her teeth in preparation. “Okay. Help me up?”

Rosita clasps her hand, giving her a pull to her feet. Almost immediately, Tara collapses against her, a guttural, strangled scream clawing itself from her throat. “Holy mother of God…”

“I know, I know,” Rosita murmurs, pulling Tara’s arm over her shoulders. “I know, I know, it’s not far, not far, almost there, just a few more steps…”

In reality, it’s at least thirty feet to the edge of the woods, but Tara doesn’t need to know that. “Almost there, almost there…”

Finally, they make it to the treeline. Rosita makes her go a few more feet, now practically dragging Tara, before finally helping her sink to the ground. Tara falls instantly, tears coursing down her cheeks from the agony, teeth still gritted. “Hide,” Rosita orders, pushing her into the thicket, already reaching for mud. “Stay here, stay quiet unless they find you. If they find you, scream so loud they hear you in hell, got it? I’ll be back in a minute with help.”

Tara manages a nods, reaching with shaking hands for mud to smear over her face and hair. “Be careful…”   
  


“Of course I will,” Rosita promises, hastily piling a handful of leaves and sticks over Tara, doing her best to fit her in as just another piece of undergrowth. “I’ve got you to think about, don’t I?”

Her good eye half-closed from exhaustion, Tara offers her a thumbs-up. Rosita touches her arm briefly and then charges back into the battle. The Whisperers are falling, slowly but surely, under the force of her friends and their drive for revenge. Out of the corner of her eye, Rosita catches a glimpse of two slender trees, ropes swinging from them in the wind, and the image of Tara strung between those two trees, shrieking in pain from the lashes of a whip, is enough to renew her strength and she whips her machete out once more, spinning the clearing in search of an opponent. 

A desperate cry from across the clearing catches her ears and she whirls around to see Magna staggering back, down one of her knives, one hand pressed to her side, covering a gushing wound. Something feral floods Rosita’s veins at the thought of losing yet another good person today and she flings herself forwards, taking a running leap. She’s light, but strong, and she manages to latch onto the Whisperer’s back. He roars in outrage, flailing wildly to try to unbalance her, but she’s faster, plunging her knife into the base of his skull. Dropping off his collapsing corpse, she rushes to Magna’s side, eyes widening at the flood of red staining her fingers. “Here,” she orders, shoving a blanket from her pack into her hand. “Put pressure on it. Tara’s in the woods there, go to her, she’ll help you, she’s the closest we’ve got to a doctor out here.”

“She a nurse or something?” Magna pants, pressing the blanket to her side, her hands streaked with red. “Trained with a doctor?”

“Dated one,” Rosita answers, clapping Magna’s shoulder. “She’ll keep you going ‘til we can get you back to Alexandria. You’re not allowed to die, got it?”

“Hope it’s not that bad,” Magna offers, spitting blood onto the corpse of her assailant. “Shouldn’t’ve tried to fight him on my own…you know you just took out her Beta, right?”   
  


Rosita glances down, grinning as she recognizes the disgusting walker mask as the one worn by Alpha’s second-in-command. “Not till now,” she answers, kicking his corpse hard in the ribs. “That’s pretty badass.”

“Hell yeah, it is,” Magna answers, and she laughs for a moment until it turns into a grimace of pain. “If I’m still alive by then, I owe you a drink.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” Rosita claps her shoulder, nodding towards the bushes where she hid Tara. “Go. You’ll be safe there.”   
  


Magna staggers off, clutching the gash on her side. Rosita swallows hard, taking just a moment to collect herself as conflict rages around her. Then she kicks Beta’s corpse once more for good measure and flings herself back into the heat of battle. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alpha needs to go. That much is clear.

It’s impossible to take her down. She’s as fast as the Oceansiders, as lithe as the Hilltoppers, as clever as those from the Kingdom, and as full-on stubborn as the Alexandrians. Watching Beta fall barely shakes her. Even with Cyndie and Jerry tag-teaming her, they’re barely dodging each of her slashes, unable to land even a glancing blow.

Seeing Rosita walk away from the corpse of their second-in-command, another faceless Whisperer charges up to challenge her. But her adrenaline rush is fading, and pregnancy is taking its toll on her stamina, and she’s slow to rise to the challenge as he raises his stick, dealing her a powerful blow to the abdomen.

The staff kicks the air out of her lungs so harshly it doubles her over, tears pricking at her eyes as she coughs up a bit of bitter bile, bracing herself with a hand on her knee. Her other hand goes automatically to her stomach, cold terror rushing through her veins at the thought of any harm to her baby. 

It clicks just in time that he’s lifting the stick again, this time going for her skull, and she drops and rolls across the dirt, slashing at the exposed Achilles tendon from the ground. Her blade hits true and he crumples, screeching in pain and clutching his ankle, and Rosita is just pushing herself up to finish it when an arrow pierces clean through his eye. His body strikes the earth with a resounding thud.

Rosita looks up to see Yumiko balanced on her boulder, already nocking another arrow. The other woman gives her a nod before drawing back the string, loosing the arrow towards one of the returning Whisperers that went out after the flare.

Still afraid for the fate of her baby, Rosita scales the boulder as well, sinking onto the hard stone to take a breath. “Can you get Alpha?”   
  


“Don’t have a clear shot,” Yumiko answers, fingering the fletchings of another arrow. “I could hit Cyndie instead.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Rosita agrees, arm still wrapped protectively over her belly. “I don’t know if you saw-”

“Magna’s hurt,” Yumiko answers stiffly, her fingers tensing around the shaft of the arrow. “Stabbed. I saw.”

“I sent her towards Tara,” Rosita offers, guilt stirring in her stomach at the thought of losing Magna. This mission was her idea, her responsibility, and the only reason Magna was out here - the only reason  _ anyone  _ is out here - is because she asked them to. If anyone dies tonight, that burden will fall squarely on her shoulders. “She’ll be safe. She’ll be fine.”

“How’s Tara?” She gets the sense Yumiko is fairly desperate for a change of subject, and Rosita can’t blame her.    
  


“Bad,” she admits truthfully. “We weren’t wrong about the torture. I had to hide her; she can’t walk. They completely smashed her leg.”

“Bastards,” Yumiko mutters, nocking another arrow. “I saw him hit you. Everything okay?”

“Not sure,” Rosita murmurs, folding her arms protectively over her belly. “I hope so.”

Yumiko opens her mouth to respond, but freezes before she can, the arrow dropping uselessly from her bow as she stares out from the boulder. “What?” Rosita gasps, pushing off the rock to rush to her side. “What happened?”

And then a shriek splits the air, desperate and feral, and Rosita can only watch helplessly as Carol rushes forwards, stabbing her knife directly through Alpha’s chest. 

For a moment, for one perfect shining moment, Rosita starts to smile, to plan her leap down from the boulder. The last of the Whisperers have been defeated, and she can ask Jerry or Dianne to carry Tara home, and save the lives of their wounded friends-

And then with one final, vindictive act, Alpha slashes out, cuts Carol’s throat from end to end, and falls down dead.

Rosita’s ears ring. She can’t hear anything, not what Yumiko mouths beside her, not the cries she’s certain arise from the straggling remainder of their enemy, only the ringing in her ears and the beating of her own heart. Blood sprays in a perfect arc from Carol’s throat, slit open into a cavernous red smile, and she collapses by Alpha’s side. Her hand twitches feebly against the grass and then falls still, and Carol’s fight is finally over. 

Her feet pound against the grass as Rosita leaps down from the boulder, rushing to Carol’s corpse, even knowing that the last drops of her life have already drained away into the dirt. Behind her, Yumiko follows, her face pale with shock as she stares down at Carol’s limp body.

The last of the Whisperers - only a few of them left now - are already running, slipping soundlessly away into the woods. Rosita lets them go. Carol lays limp and still in a pool of blood, the river of scarlet already beginning to ebb. Blood does not flow long from corpses.

“What do we do now?” Jerry mumbles hoarsely, staring down at her body. “Rosita…?”

She’s still the leader. She’s still the leader of this godforsaken mission, and it’s entirely her fault that Carol is dead. It’s all too much, the amount of blood on her hands will never wash away, and she might have crumpled and given up if the baby inside her hadn’t chosen that moment to flutter, giving her a gentle reminder that life will go on. She presses a hand to her stomach, hoping for another soft flutter as she lifts her head. “We have to get Tara and Magna to Alexandria,” she manages, her voice cracking with grief. “They’re hurt, both of them. We have to hurry.”

Cyndie kneels by Carol’s body. A blade flashes in the moonlight, and her brain is silenced. Rosita nods towards the bushes where she hid Tara, where Magna hopefully made it. “Tara can’t walk. I doubt Magna can either. They’ll need to be carried.”

“And Carol?” Aaron questions, his voice shaking. “What do we do…?”   
  


“We bring her back as well,” Rosita orders, her voice sharp as she stares down at the corpse of the woman she begged to join them here. “To bury her.”

Cyndie and Aaron take Carol’s body between them, beginning the long walk back to Alexandria with a handful of soldiers as their guard. The rest follow Rosita to the bushes where she hid Tara.

Magna is propped against a tree, her breathing shallow but even. The worst of the blood seems to be stopping, and her hands still press the blanket to her side. Tara leans against the tree as well, head lolling on her shoulder. She looks barely conscious in the dim light of the moon, her hands stained with Magna’s blood. But as Rosita drops to her knees beside her, her good eye flutters open, and she cracks another thin smile. “Bleeding’s about stopped. She’ll live.”

“You’d better too, you got that?” Rosita chokes out, sudden tears rushing to her eyes at the sight of how horribly beaten Tara must have been. “You’re not - not allowed to die-”

“Easy,” Tara breathes, reaching out to touch Rosita’s arm with shaking fingers. “I’d hug you, you know, but I’m pretty sure most of my ribs are broken - what happened?”

“Carol,” Yumiko murmurs from Magna’s side, and that’s all she needs to say to get the point across.

“Shit,” Tara mumbles, her head falling back against the tree, hot tears leaking from her good eye. “Shit, shit, shit...this is all my fault.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Jerry orders, even as he chokes on his own grief. “Come here. We’ve gotta get you to Alexandria.”

  
“I have to go to Hilltop,” Tara insists, biting her split lip, blood dribbling down her chin. “They need me, I’m the only leader they’ve got-”

“Tara, you need a doctor,” Rosita interjects, wiping away tears on her sleeve. “We have Siddiq. He can help you first - Hilltop needs you healthy.”

“We have Enid,” Tara says stubbornly, her voice faint from exhaustion and pain. “Please...they need me…”

“Tara,” Rosita says softly, and the words feel almost mechanical on her tongue. “Enid’s dead.”

Tara jerks her head up for a moment, shock obvious on her pale and bloodied face, and then Rosita can practically see the wave of memories hit her like a bus. Her mouth falls open, blood still trickling down her chin, and a soft whimpering noise escapes her before she faints against Jerry’s legs, falling limp and still at his feet.

“Shock was too much for her,” he murmurs, already leaning down to scoop her up. “She’ll come around soon.”

“You can carry her?” Rosita chokes out, hand gently tracing Tara’s bloodied arm. 

“Course,” Jerry promises, adjusting her limp body to support the crushed leg as best he can. “She’s a featherweight; I got her easy.”

Rosita nods, leaning in to lightly kiss her forehead. “Let’s take her home.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tara regains consciousness as they enter the gates of Alexandria, blinking in the light of the fires. “Rosita…?”

“Right here,” Rosita promises instantly, brushing a hand over her arm reassuringly. “We’re going to the infirmary now. You’re safe.”

Siddiq is still recovering from his own time in the hands of the Whisperers, a bandage wrapped around his head, but he rushes up in spite of his injuries as they enter the infirmary. “Who’s worse?”

“Magna,” Tara breathes instantly, her one good eye almost shut with exhaustion. “She needs stitches soon. I don’t have anything that can’t - can’t wait.”

“Tara, that leg-” Rosita starts, but then Siddiq peels back the blood-soaked blanket and nods. 

“She’s right. She needs stitches, at least twenty, and most likely a transfusion. You know your blood type?”

“A positive.” Yumiko answers for her, her hand interlocked tightly with Magna’s as they carry her to the nearest bed. “I’ll do it, I’m O negative.”

“Perfect.” Siddiq glances up, nodding towards the next bed. “You can lay her down, give her some Valium to make her more comfortable. I’ll be over as soon as I’m done here.”

With some support from Rosita, Jerry lowers Tara into the bed, grimacing as she whimpers in pain. “I know, I know,” Rosita murmurs, stroking a strand of hair behind her ear soothingly. “I’ll have some painkillers for you in a minute…”

But Tara seizes her hand, pulling her back, and Rosita gets the feeling that she’s not ready to surrender lucidity yet. “Who - who’s dead?”

“The highwaymen,” Rosita says slowly, bracing herself for the pain she knows is about to come for both of them. “Henry from the Kingdom. Frankie from Alexandria. And...Enid, Addy, Tammy, and Rodney. From Hilltop.”

“Oh my God…” Tara falls back against the pillows, and the tremors in her hands have nothing to do with the torture. “I - I saw Enid - but they came, they broke us out, I thought someone -  _ someone  _ would get away…”

“They spared Siddiq to give us a warning,” Rosita murmurs, perching on the edge of Tara’s bed. “And...you. Tara, what  _ happened…? _ ”

“I was - I was at the fair,” Tara mumbles slowly, her tone still sharp with shock. “And there was this woman...I thought something felt off, but she was just so - so  _ nice... _ she said there was something I should see, and I followed her, and then something just - she hit me from behind, dazed me...she got me tied up while I was down and told me if I screamed she’d burn Hilltop to the ground...and then she hit me again, and I woke up...my hands were tied, and everyone else was there too...and they were coming, there were just so  _ many  _ of them-”

Rosita flinches at the circle of flaming rope burn around her wrists, squeezing Tara’s hand gently. The other woman still hasn’t let go of her wrist.

“Good God…” Tara shakes her head, tears leaving tracks in the mess of blood and filth on her face, her swollen eye still weeping pus. “I was supposed to be their  _ leader,  _ and I let three kids get killed-”

“Don’t do that,” Rosita orders instantly. “You didn’t get anyone killed. You were  _ kidnapped.  _ Wasn’t a whole lot you could do unconscious now, was there?”   
  


“This...this never would have happened if Maggie was here.” Tara shakes her head again, her face twisting with pain at the motion. “She never would have gotten knocked out like that, she always did right by her people…Rosita, Addy and Rodney weren’t even seventeen, and Enid was still a kid too, and Tammy just adopted that  _ baby  _ \- and I got them all killed-”

“Maggie’s not invincible,” Rosita corrects her, her voice softening at the absolute misery on Tara’s face. “She could have been hit from behind, same as you. If you had screamed there might not  _ be  _ a Hilltop right now. We all lost people, Tara. But she’s dead now too, and Michonne and Daryl are dealing with the herd.”

“And Carol’s dead too,” Tara gasps, her voice growing frantic. “She died for  _ me,  _ it’s my fault she was out there-”

“No, it’s not,” Rosita snaps, the reminder of her own guilt tightening her temper. “It’s mine, because I talked her into going. It’s not on you.”

What little color Tara had regained has faded from her cheeks, leaving her sickly pale. “Where are...what did you do with the bodies?”

Rosita bites her lip, and she has to turn away to deliver the last piece of news. “We don’t have bodies. She...Tara, she cut off their heads and put them on pikes to mark the border. She cut their heads off and let them turn.”

For a moment, Tara is completely still, the cut on her lip reopening under her teeth. Then she snatches up the basin on the side of the bed and vomits into it. Rosita can only guess half from the concussion she most likely has and half from shock and disgust. Hands trembling, she gently gathers Tara’s hair back, pulling it from her face. “Easy…”

Tara melts into her as soon as she’s done, willingly letting Rosita take the basin from her hands and set it aside. “You want something for the pain now…?”   
  


“Mm-hmm…” But Tara clutches Rosita’s hands like she’ll crack in half without her touch, and finally Rosita throws a pleading look to Jerry, who nods and fetches the small bottle of pills. Tara takes them without hesitation, sipping on the water bottle Rosita brought for her. Within a few minutes, the tension is draining from her body, and the hand tremors stop. Rosita doubts that Tara knows Valium is a relaxant as well as a painkiller, and at this moment, she doesn’t need to. All she needs is to be free of her guilt and fear, if only for a few hours.

Siddiq joins them a few moments later, changing his gloves as he approaches. “What’s worst?”

“She’s probably got a concussion,” Rosita offers, stroking Tara’s hair slowly. “Lash marks on her back, a lot of them. And her leg…”

“Follow my finger,” Siddiq orders, moving his index finger slowly in front of Tara’s nose. Her good eye barely flutters. “How many fingers am I holding up?”   
  


It’s three. Tara squints in concentration before finally slumping back, surrendering. “‘S double vision…”

“Most likely a concussion,” he decides, already shifting attention to her leg. “Bed rest and limited light for the next few weeks. What happened to the leg?”

“Stepped on it,” Tara mumbles, slurring her words from the effects of the Valium. “Hit me with a stick...bent it all wrong…”

“It looks shattered,” Siddiq sighs, gingerly probing the bloody mess of bone shards and ravaged tissue. “I can feel at least two internal fractures and several compounds. I can’t be sure how bad without an X-ray, and...there’s no way to get that…give me some time on that. We’ll put it in traction for now and keep you on a stream of painkillers. Let me see your back?”

In the artificial light coming from the salvaged bulb in the infirmary, Tara’s wounds are even worse than they appeared in the woods. Half-dried blood crusts the deep scarlet slashes, shreds of her shirt tangled in the long strings of torn flesh. Even under the influence of a powerful muscle relaxant, she still jerks with pain at even the softest touch from Siddiq’s practiced hands. “Rosita, I’m going to need you to be my nurse,” he murmurs, pulling back slowly. “I need surgical scissors, gauze, bandages, and lidocaine, it’s the only way I’m gonna be able to touch her. And grab her a new shirt while you’re at it?”   
  


“I’ll be right back,” Rosita murmurs, slipping her fingers from Tara’s loosening grasp. She’s spent enough time in the infirmary, between her tangle with a bullet during the war with the Saviors and staying with Tara after various accidents. It’s easy enough to gather the requested supplies. Finally, she scoops up an oversized jacket of hers she accidentally left behind after her last prenatal checkup. It should be a comfortable but loose fit on Tara, giving easy access to her wounds. And the fact that it still smells of Rosita won’t do her any harm.

The topical analgesic is enough to still Tara as Siddiq cuts away shreds of flesh and scraps of fabric clotted into the dried blood staining her skin. Rosita’s hand creeps back to hers, and she scoops it up slowly, squeezing down on her limp hand. Tara doesn’t squeeze back - the effects of the Valium are in full swing and she wouldn’t blink if a bomb went off behind her - but Rosita holds her hand anyway, rubbing slow circles over her knuckles as Siddiq dabs away crusts of rusty dried blood.

“It’ll scar,” he sighs, finally setting down the scissors. “Pretty horrifically, I’d say. But it’s clean. We’ll have to monitor her for signs of infection. Let’s get her bandaged up.”

When the bandages are done, Rosita slips the jacket over her shoulders, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead as she pulls up the zipper. As dazed and drugged as she is, Tara snuggles subconsciously into the fleecy fabric, blood and filth still marring her face. “I’ll get her cleaned up,” Rosita murmurs, reaching for a wet cloth. “You should get back to bed. You need your rest.”

Siddiq tries to protest, but being on his feet this long has drained the color from his face and he’s clearly in pain, squinting under the bright lights of the infirmary. “Call if you need me,” he orders finally. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Rosita finds a cold pack for her eye, pressing it against the swollen flesh. The cut in her hairline will need stitches, she can tell that much just by looking at it. Maybe a few more on the other gashes. “Tara, honey, you’re gonna look like Frankenstein’s monster,” she murmurs, reaching for the suture kit.

“‘M not a monster,” Tara mumbles sleepily, her good eye fluttering open. The defensiveness in her voice is enough to draw a sharp, short laugh out of Rosita as she threads the suturing needle. 

“Of course you’re not,” Rosita promises, gently slipping the lidocaine needle in to numb the wound. “Just gonna give you a few stitches…”

Tara makes a noncommittal noise, holding obediently still for the needle. As she ties off the first stitch, Rosita remembers the first time - and the second, and the third, and the tenth, and the hundredth time - she’s cupped Tara’s face like this, stitching up some small gash earned from her being rash or impulsive or just plain stupid.  _ “You’re an idiot,”  _ Rosita would laugh, looping the thread, and Tara would chuckle through her exaggerated grimace of pain and hit her with that ridiculous shit-eating grin, and something would flutter in her chest as she tied off the stitch.

Then she has to stop thinking about Tara’s smile or she’ll start crying, and the last thing she can take right now is crying.

Finally, it’s done, and Rosita ascertains that the drip of painkillers is flowing before settling back into her chair, watching Tara slip away into the current of sleep. She’s almost jealous of the peace in her face, and if she wasn’t thinking about how it might affect the baby, she’d pop a Valium herself.

Instead, she leans back, glancing over at Magna and Yumiko beside them. “Everything okay?” she whispers, reaching out to flick off the lights.

Just before she hits the lights, Magna offers her a lazy peace sign, blood still staining her fingers in the harsh infirmary lights.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s not looking good.” Siddiq steps back from the remains of Tara’s knee, shaking his head. “Maybe with surgery, but…”

“You’re a surgeon, right?” Rosita asks, tilting her head as she squeezes down on Tara’s hand. The Valium wore off during the night, and the painkillers aren’t nearly enough to take off anything more than the very edge of her pain. “You could fix it!”

“I was a resident, for the ER,” Siddiq says tiredly, staring down at the oozing, bloody mess of bone fragments and snapped tendons. “I’ve done exactly three surgeries, and none of them were orthopedic. My guess? With a complete OR, a highly experienced world-class ortho surgeon, and advanced physical therapy, you could maybe get half the original range of motion back. With me? The best chance at saving your life is to amputate.”

“You wanna cut my leg off?” Tara tries to prop herself up on her elbows, but her broken ribs protest and she slumps back, barely caught by Rosita. “It’s broken, sure, but it can’t be that bad - how am I supposed to take care of Hilltop if I can’t  _ walk? _ ”

“You have a blacksmith,” Siddiq answers steadily, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I can work with him to get you a prosthetic and a good crutch. You’ll have to learn how to walk again, but with practice and physical therapy, you’ll be able to get around just fine. The real danger is leaving it as is. Infection is a serious risk, and you definitely can’t lead Hilltop if you’re dead.”

Tara sighs, shaking her head to herself as if denial will repair the bone. “Have you - have you ever even  _ done  _ an amputation?”

“I’ve observed several. Both in the OR and from the gallery. With Rosita helping, it should be a fairly smooth procedure.”

“So you haven’t.” Pain is making Tara snappy and her voice is uncharacteristically harsh as she stares up at the ceiling, biting her split lip. “And what happens if you  _ can’t  _ and I bleed out? I can’t leave Hilltop without a leader, I’m already the backup for the backup, there’s no one to take my place-”

“Tara, you need to listen to me,” Siddiq says sternly, tapping her arm to get her attention. “If we don’t do something, and  _ soon,  _ you are going to die. I could try to piece it back together. Without a miracle, that’ll most likely kill you too. Amputation isn’t just your best chance, it’s your  _ only  _ chance. Are you going to let me save your life or not?” 

Tara’s eyes flick helplessly over to Rosita, silently begging for her advice. “Come on,” Rosita says softly, squeezing her hand. “He’s right. You’re no good to Hilltop dead. I really doubt they’re gonna miss your left leg too much, as long as they get you back.”

The corner of Tara’s mouth twitches for a moment, and as disconcerting as it is to see her without her usual smile, it’s a start. “You’re gonna be with me, right? For this?”

“If you want me.” 

Tara sighs heavily, squeezing down hard on Rosita’s hand. “I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this...okay. Cut - cut my leg off.” Her voice wavers on her words and something clenches tightly in Rosita’s chest.

“Okay. We’ll do it in an hour.” And then he’s gone to check on Magna, and Tara turns back to Rosita, her eyes unexpectedly welling with tears. 

“It won’t be that bad,” Rosita says emptily, and the words are horribly hollow even in her own ears. “We’ll get you a prosthetic, it’ll be okay…”

But Tara just shakes her head and muffles a sob, and all Rosita can think to do is stroke her hair slowly and squeeze her shaking hand and try to bite back her own tears. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing Tara does after regaining consciousness from the anesthesia is to confusedly mumble “the only straight I am is a straight-up bitch.”

The second is to immediately hurl into Rosita’s hat, which she had stupidly placed on the bedside table next to the basin.

She finally comes up for air, frighteningly pale and watery-eyed, still dazed from the anesthetic. “Shit...that’s not right...shit, sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rosita murmurs, wrinkling her nose in spite of herself as she tugs the hat away. “I’ll wash it.”

Tara’s eyes flicker to the stump of her leg, still blinking heavily from the drugs. “‘S really gone…”

“Yeah,” Rosita murmurs, her own gaze turning to the leg. Siddiq cut it neatly just above the knee, removing all the damaged bone. He did a fair job for his first attempt and mediocre-at-best equipment, but that’s no reassurance to Tara as she swallows hard, staring at the empty space where her leg once was. “Does it hurt too bad?”

“Can’t feel anything,” Tara mumbles, still fixated on the bandages wrapped tightly around the stump of her leg.

“That’s the anesthesia,” Rosita answers, touching her shoulder lightly. “We have some oxy you can take for the pain afterwards.”

Tara nods numbly, clutching a fistful of sheet in her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Rosita slips out of her chair, perching on the edge of her bed. “Talk to me?”

“What do you want me to say?” Tara whispers hoarsely, jerking her gaze from the stump of her leg to face Rosita, her eyes glimmering with freshly-brimming tears. “What do I even - what do I  _ do,  _ ‘Zita?”

And Tara hasn’t called her that since their brief spark of a relationship nearly six years ago. The last time she heard that nickname was in the darkness of her bedroom between cool sheets, screamed through gritted teeth, fingernails raking and pulses pounding, and hearing it again now sends a flush of heat spreading through her chest at the memories of what they used to have. 

Those few stolen months with Tara were better than any of the men she’d ever taken into her arms. And she’s spent the last six years trying to replicate the blazing passion in her moments with Tara, and nothing else has even come close to the fire that coursed through her veins when Tara kissed her.

“Keep fighting,” she whispers, locking their fingers together. “You keep fighting. And you let people help you. You let  _ me  _ help you.”

Tara shakes her head, tears leaving glistening tracks down her cheeks. “Carol should still be fighting too.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Rosita says again, and she could say it again and again a thousand times over, say it until her throat is dry and her voice is gone, and it wouldn’t make a dent of difference in the guilt shining in Tara’s eyes.

She’s always been bad about feeling guilt for sins not her own. It took her months to let go of what happened at the prison, and longer to forgive herself for not finding a way to protect Denise. Carol’s death may very well haunt her forever.

It’s hard to hug Tara properly because of her broken ribs. But Rosita manages anyway.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as they manage to scavenge a pair of crutches, Tara is pleading to return to Hilltop. After days of begging, Siddiq finally acquiesces, on one condition - she has to be able to walk.

“Let’s do this,” Rosita says encouragingly, bringing the crutches to Tara’s bedside. “To the door and back, okay?”

Tara flinches, glancing towards the door. “You sure…?”   
  


“I’m sure,” Rosita promises, reaching out to stabilize her as she pushes herself up. “It’s about twenty feet each way, it’s not bad, really.”

“You got this!” Magna calls encouragingly from her bed, propping herself upright on her pillows. 

Tara forces a weak smile, gripping the crutches tightly. “Haven’t used these since I broke my leg in second grade…”

“Same concept,” Rosita assures her, pulling her up, staying close for support. “Take your time, okay? Your balance is going to be totally off, it’s going to take a minute to get used to.”

Tara nods, setting her remaining foot firmly on the tile floor. “Okay. Okay...I think you can let go.”

Rosita steps back obediently, tapping her foot anxiously as Tara braces herself, taking a hesitant hop forward. Before her foot even reaches the ground, she loses her balance and a crutch slips out from under her, sending her crashing to the floor. 

“Shit,” Rosita mumbles, kneeling by her side. “You okay?”   
  


“Fantastic,” Tara mutters, her voice cracking with frustration. “Fan-fucking-tastic. Help me up, will you?”   
  


Rosita tugs her to her feet, wrapping Tara’s arm around her shoulder to support her as she hands her back her crutches. “Take it slower. Just give it a minute, get used to the feeling.”

Tara nods again, teeth gritted with determination. “Okay. Okay. I’m ready.”

Rosita backs off, even though she knows that Tara’s going down again any second. This is something she has to learn for herself, as much as it hurts to watch her stumble and crumple to the tile.

She takes another ill-fated hop, rushing in her frustration, and just as Rosita predicted, loses her balance setting her foot down and hits the floor with a dull  _ thud.  _ She’s already trying to claw herself back up, her face twisted with anger and desperation. “Tara,” Magna calls hesitantly, visibly nervous from her cot. “Maybe take a break, just for a minute...?”

“I can’t take a break!” Tara hisses, hauling herself back into a sitting position. “I have to be able to do this, and I  _ can  _ do this, because it’s just fucking  _ walking- _ ”

“It’s very early in your recovery to be walking,” Siddiq offers, but the way he says it betrays that he’s not expecting her to listen. “You can stand, that’s good-”

“I’m going to walk,” Tara insists, and despite every instinct screaming to stop enabling this desperate endeavor, Rosita silently helps her to her feet, handing her back the crutches. It has to hurt like the devil, between the broken ribs and the lash wounds, but there’s no talking Tara out of this. 

She goes crashing down almost as soon as she stands, and it takes her a few seconds to stir. Magna visibly winces as she hits the floor, turning away from the sight. “Rosita-” Siddiq starts to say, but she holds up a hand to stop him and helps Tara back to her feet. 

She’s shaking now, her hands shivering with tremors as Rosita hands her the crutches, stepping back when Tara gives her the nod. Bruises are starting to darken on her arms, a bit of blood trickling from a scrape, but Rosita forces herself to stay back. She won’t be able to stop Tara either, she knows she won’t.

Her desperation makes her hasty and Tara’s on the ground before she can even lift a crutch. This time she doesn’t try to get up, lying spent on the cold tile, trembling against the floor, and Rosita knows she’s broken. She kneels beside her slowly, easing the crutches from her white-knuckled fists, setting them aside. “Tara?” she murmurs, gently brushing her arm. “Tara, honey…”

Tara doesn’t respond. She just lays where she fell, shaking, muffled sobs echoing from under the fabric of the jacket. Rosita finally wraps her arms around her, easing Tara into her lap, stroking her hair gently. She clutches at the fabric of her shirt, burying her head in Rosita’s shoulder to cry. They fit together naturally, just like they did six years ago.

Tara still feels the same in her arms. Rosita feels a rush of heat to her face as she draws Tara closer. The time that’s stretched between their last day together and this one seems to evaporate as she cradles her ex-lover, pressing a kiss to her head, careful to avoid the row of stitches. 

She’s falling for Tara all over again. But this time something’s different. Their moments together six years ago were fueled by desperation and loneliness and grief for the loved ones they’d lost. Tara had just come from losing Denise then, the wound still raw in her heart, and Rosita hadn’t even been sure what love was anymore, or if anyone had ever loved her, or if anyone ever would. She’d been dazed and confused and heartbroken, and she’d sought solace in Tara’s arms, if only for a few stolen hours. But this is different. It’s sweet and slow and steady, the way her stomach flutters at the thought of Tara, the easy blush the other woman draws to her cheeks. The thought of kissing her makes her flush like a horny teenager, and it’s not a stretch for her to conjure up a fantasy of raising her baby with Tara by her side, waking up next to her in the morning and going to bed with her at night, spending however many days they have left together. As Tara clings to her like ivy to a wall, Rosita has to wonder if she ever really did stop feeling this way, or if she simply pushed it down, buried it in a desperate attempt to move on.

Either way, she’s starting to think she’s the one who owes Magna a drink.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Come on,” Rosita orders, giving Tara a gentle shake as the sun streams through the blinds. “Up. We’re going to get you walking.”

Tara slowly opens her eyes, wincing at the light. She’s still not been cleared for the concussion, but Rosita figures that if there was any damage to be done, she’d already have incurred it yesterday. “You saw how that went-”

“I did,” Rosita answers, offering Tara a hand. “And like hell I’m gonna let you give up now. Stand up.”

Tara stares at her for a moment, her eyes widening in shock at Rosita’s stern tone. But she obeys, clasping Rosita’s hand and slowly hauling herself to her feet. She sways a little on her remaining foot, holding Rosita’s arm for support. “Crutches?”   
  


“Not using ‘em,” Rosita answers briskly, pulling Tara’s arm around her shoulder. “I’m going to be your crutch. I won’t let you fall. It’ll give you some more practice time and less face-planting.”

“You don't have to do that, I can’t ask you to hold me up forever-” Tara starts, but Rosita cuts her off easily.

“You won’t. Hopefully you’ll be on crutches by tonight. You ready?”   
  


Tara sucks in a deep breath, biting her abused lip nervously. The string of failures from the previous day’s attempts have knocked her confidence, but she’s never been one to surrender, even in the darkest moments. “Ready.”

“Then take a step.” Rosita tightens her grip on Tara’s waist, careful to avoid her broken ribs, ready to catch her if need be. 

Tara nods, her hands trembling as she braces herself, taking a short hop forwards. She loses her balance almost immediately, staggering against Rosita. “Shit!”

“Easy,” Rosita orders, steadying her easily. She and Tara are no strangers to supporting each other like this, and she knows that she’s going to fall even before she does. “You’re going forward fine, it’s keeping your balance when you put your foot down that’s the problem. Try again.”

Tara sighs, and it’s clear just how tired she is, but obeys, hopping forward nervously. She barely makes it a few inches, and her foot slips a little on the tile, but she makes it, catching herself with minimal help from Rosita’s arm. “Did I - was that-”

“You took a step,” Rosita says warmly, giving her a gentle squeeze around the waist. “You’re getting it. It’s just going to take practice.”

Tara cracks a half-smile, resting her head on Rosita’s shoulder for a moment. “Help me again?”

“Of course.” 

It takes nearly half an hour for Tara to hop from the bed to the infirmary door and back, but she manages, practically collapsing onto the mattress as soon as she reaches it. Her face is milky pale, the split in her lip reopening under her teeth. She’s breathing heavily, her hand still clenched tight around Rosita’s arm. “Holy  _ shit,  _ that was hard.”

“It’ll get easier,” Rosita promises, drawing the blinds to block the worst of the sunlight. “Take a break. We’ll try again in a few minutes.”

By the end of the day, Tara’s barely able to keep her eyes open and her head lolls exhaustedly on Rosita’s shoulder, but she’s able to hop about on the crutches with relative success. It’s not fast, and she’s done stepping outside the walls of the communities, most likely forever, but she’s walking.

Siddiq checks her exhaustively, examining her head to toe looking for any reasons to keep her back, but finally leans back, nodding reluctantly. “I don’t like it. I don’t approve of it. But if you take a  _ wagon  _ \- not a horse - back to the Hilltop, continue with the antibiotics and change the bandages faithfully, and take it easy for the next few weeks - you can travel.”

It’s the closest to her old smile Tara’s come since they brought her back to Alexandria. 

Rosita tries not to think about how much she’s going to miss her.


	3. Chapter 3

The infirmary is dark and empty as Rosita settles into her chair for the night. Magna was cleared in the afternoon to leave - she and Yumiko will return to the Hilltop with Tara in the morning. So it’s just her and Tara in the infirmary for the night.

She doesn’t sleep. She can tell by her breathing that Tara isn’t either. Odd, after how close she’d been to sleeping on Rosita’s shoulder after she’d made that final step back to the bed.

She and Tara had been close before they lost Denise, practically sisters. She knew there had been more than a few rumors about them before she made her relationship with Denise public. Then Tara had come home to find her girlfriend and her best friend dead, her only remaining close friend an empty shell after losing the man she’d desperately clung to loving. And they traded that comfortable affection for hookups, and then hookups for a cordial but distant relationship. 

She still doesn’t know why she broke it off. She’d asked Tara to meet her outside the wall to talk, and the way she said it made it clear she wasn’t thinking of another of their usual secret meetings. Tara came, of course she came, wide-eyed and worried and confused, and Rosita had choked out something about not being able to do this anymore, avoiding her gaze the entire time, and then bolted, something squeezing painfully in her chest as she climbed back over the wall, leaving a shocked and bewildered Tara at the treeline.

But now they’re picking up right back where they left off, before Rosita grabbed a sniffling Tara by the collar of her shirt and pulled her in for a rough kiss after another silent night of grieving, before they drifted apart like the seeds of a dandelion. Tara touches her easily and calls her nicknames and doesn’t question leaning on her. 

But it’s different too. Rosita doesn’t recall her heart racing the way it does when she gazes at Tara ever before in her life, not for Gabriel, not for Spencer, not for Siddiq, not even Abraham. This is new, and it’s scary, but it’s exhilarating too, and her pulse racing makes her feel alive.

“Rosita?” Tara murmurs, snapping her out of her reverie. “You awake?”  
  


“Yeah,” Rosita whispers back, steepling her fingers as she stares out at the constellations speckling the inky midnight sky. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is.” Rosita keeps her tone light, but the tension underneath the brevity betrays that she doesn’t know what Tara’s going to ask, and she’s a little afraid of what she might.

“Will you come back to Hilltop with me?”

Of all the things Tara might have asked, that’s one of the few Rosita wouldn’t have ever guessed. “Do you want me to?”

“Mm-hmm.” Tara pushes herself up on her elbows, and her dark hair shines softly in the moonlight. “I miss you. I’m almost alone at Hilltop, and they want me to be a leader, and I don’t - I’m not a leader, Rosita. Maybe I can become one. But I can’t do it alone, especially not with one leg. I don’t want to have to say goodbye to you again.”

Rosita privately gives thanks for the darkness, because she’s certain she’s blushing. “Tara, I miss you too, but the baby…”

“We still have Dr. Carson’s old equipment,” Tara says softly, and her eyes shine in the darkness. “The ultrasound, all of it. You don’t have to worry about the baby.”

“You...you really want me?” Rosita murmurs, but she can already feel herself caving. Like she could deny Tara anything. And now she might not have to say goodbye.

“‘Zita, I need you,” Tara answers, stretching out her hand to Rosita. “I can’t keep doing this alone. Please.”

She nods, tears unexpectedly pricking her eyes as she takes Tara’s hand. “Then I’ll come. I’ll come.”

“Thank you,” Tara breathes, and then she slides over in the bed, making room for Rosita. “Stay?”

Her heartbeat pounds in her ears as she slips into the bed, lying shoulder to shoulder with Tara, their hands entwined over the cool sheets. It’s dizzying and terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and she can barely breathe as she lays beside Tara, studying the ceiling.

She gets the feeling Tara is biting something back. A question hangs between them, unspoken and unanswered, but hangs still, like a dark cloud above their heads, leaving a wedge between them even as their shoulders brush.

Finally, Tara spits it out, a little breathless herself. “Why’d you end it?”

“I don’t know,” Rosita answers honestly, squeezing her hand to ground herself as she searches the corners of her soul for an answer. “I was scared, I think. Of falling for you. Of losing you.”

Tara hums in response, and her grip doesn’t loosen. “I was scared too, you know.”

“You were?” That’s news to Rosita. Tara had always been strong and confident when they were together, never showing a hint of fear. She was mourning then, and she cried nearly every day, but she never seemed afraid.

“Yeah. Scared to death.” Tara sighs, gazing up at the ceiling. “I was dating someone before the world went to shit, you know. Casey. She was a nurse at the hospital where my sister worked. Told her goodbye in the morning, never saw her again. I had something casual going with a hot girl from an old camp I was at...bullet through her brain. She promised she’d find me, never did. Then...Denise. I lose people like house keys, ‘Zita. I was terrified of losing you.”

“But you didn’t break it off,” Rosita murmurs. “I did. If it was so scary...why did you keep doing it?”

“I don’t know,” Tara admits after a moment. “I guess...if we give up on love, then all is pretty much lost. And I’m not ready to take that _L_ just yet.”

Rosita chuckles at the metaphor, her heart fluttering as Tara laughs too. She’d forgotten just how nice it was to laugh with Tara over one of her stupid jokes. “You ever find anyone else?”

Tara hums her denial, and a wave of relief washes over her, followed by guilt for being relieved. “Guess someone set the bar a little high,” she teases, playfully nudging Rosita, and she sounds more like herself than she has in weeks. “You?”

“No,” Rosita says after a moment’s thought, her mind flipping over the string of boys she’d tried to substitute for Tara. “I tried. I was doing something with Gabriel - and yeah, it does sound pretty bad to admit - but that’s over. It never really started.”

“Gabriel?” Tara almost snorts, squeezing Rosita’s hand. “When’d you break that off?”

“Right before I went to go get you,” Rosita murmurs, the humor draining away in a heartbeat at the memory of the fear fluttering in her chest that night. “He didn’t want me to. So I dumped his ass and went after you anyway.”

“Is he-” Tara starts to ask, a little hesitant, but Rosita shakes her head, already guessing the question.

“No. I was having some fun with Siddiq before Gabriel asked me out...it’s him.”

“That,” Tara observes, “is one hell of a triangle.”

Rosita laughs dryly, turning on her side to face Tara, propping her head up on her elbow. “You’re not wrong. Although it’s pretty much just the one point by now. Siddiq and I decided he wasn’t going to be involved, and Gabriel’s out, trust me.”

“Why was he ever in?” Tara asks, and behind her clear amusement at the idea of Rosita and Gabriel together is genuine curiosity. “Were you just that desperate or…?”  
  


“Dunno...I could do worse.” Rosita offers, but the corners of her mouth twitch almost immediately and she breaks into the wide smile that only Tara was ever able to tease out of her. “Okay, I was pretty damn desperate.”

“If you needed some that bad, why didn’t you just call me?” Tara snickers, and although she’s clearly kidding, her words send a fresh wave of heat rushing to Rosita’s cheeks. 

“Wish I had,” she mumbles instead, laying back against the pillow. “The sex was _awful._ ”

“‘Zita, babe, he’s literally a priest. What exactly were you expecting?” And the pure ridiculousness of this conversation hits her then, and Rosita laughs like she hasn’t in years, and she never wants this moment to end, giggling like a stupid sorority girl as she clutches Tara’s arm, her face illuminated by the moonlight.

“Well, at least I haven’t been living celibate,” Rosita says finally, nudging Tara’s arm lightly. 

“At least I can still claim to have _standards._ ”

“Oh, shut up.” Rosita gives her another gentle nudge, careful to avoid her broken ribs. “You should get some sleep. Long day tomorrow, and you’re banged up enough as it is.”

“Gee, thanks,” Tara mumbles, wriggling closer to Rosita anyway. “Don’t go anywhere? You make me feel a lot better - better than I have in a while.”

“You’re batshit crazy if you think I’m getting out of this bed,” Rosita murmurs affectionately, wrapping an arm around her. “Not going anywhere, Tara.”

She’s not at all surprised when Tara wakes them both up with a wail of fear, clutching at the bandaged stump of her leg. Rosita is no stranger to nightmares. Her own wake her nearly every night, the scar running down her cheek burning as if it was fresh. Rosita pulls her hands away from the bandages and hums her back to sleep, slowly stroking her hair. 

Even when Tara drifts away again, Rosita’s eyes stay open. She can’t shake the guilt following her at every turn - guilt for Carol, guilt for Magna’s stab wound, guilt for Tara’s missing leg, guilt for the nine fair victims she might have protected had she only paid more attention.

No matter where she goes, a trail of blood follows her. She can’t hide from the blood on her hands. And the look on Daryl’s face when they told him about Carol will be just another addition to the cast of her own nightmares.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes less than an hour for Rosita to pack her things. She doesn’t take much more than clothes and a few small keepsakes, mostly things for the baby. She says a few brief goodbyes - mostly to Judith. Of all the people she’s come to know in Alexandria, she’ll miss Judith the most by far.

Tara’s eyes light up as they reach the Hilltop, sun streaming idyllically over the towering wooden walls, dew shining on the grass. The gates roll open for her, and she pushes herself up as soon as the wagon reaches a stop, hopping with her crutches towards the edge. Suddenly realizing the flaw in this plan, she glances down at the three-foot drop to the grass below. “Um…”

“Here,” Rosita laughs, lowering herself to the grass. “Hand me the crutches, I’ll help you out.”

Using Rosita as a support, Tara manages to get herself to the ground, reclaiming her crutches as the people of Hilltop approach, a wave of shock washing over them as they take in the extent of her injuries. There’s some joy too, relief at having her back, but mostly confusion and a little fear. They have her back, but even after she’s started to heal, the bruises and gashes still look terrifyingly severe, especially in the full light of noon.

“Um…” Tara shrugs as best she can, forcing a smile. “Hi. I’m not dead. I thought I was. But I’m not. Just down a leg...as you can see…”

Rosita tries not to flinch too badly. Tara was never fantastic with words, and she’s crashing and burning now in front of a confused and frightened people without a leader. She’s aware she looks out of place - after the split, it’s probably a shock to see her here with no ostensible reason for her presence - but someone has to save her. “Tara was taken prisoner at the fair by the Whisperers. We got her back, but her leg was too injured to save. She’s still pretty scraped up, but Siddiq says she’ll make a full recovery.”

“And you’re here because…?” Someone calls from the crowd, suspicion sharp in his voice. 

“I asked her to come,” Tara responds, her voice gaining strength. “She’s my friend, and she’s here to help.”

“We don’t need her help!” Another voice calls, but Tara cuts it off quickly, her back straightening as her confidence grows.

“We do. We’ve been apart for too long, and that’s what made us vulnerable. The woman who took me - I didn’t know her, and I assumed she was just from another community. And I’m willing to bet that’s what happened to the others - to our friends.” She takes a few steps forward, her voice barely wavering. “We’re stronger together. And we _need_ to stand together.”

“You want to start working together?” Someone else questions, and Tara nods.

“I want to reopen trade with the other communities. We have things they want, and they have things we want. We can grow food, sure, but we don’t have a lot of things, things we could really use. We can train together, learn from each other to become better fighters. Next time - and we all know there’s going to be a next time - they won’t catch us off guard. We’ll be ready to fight, and we’ll know who our friends are.”

Some murmuring still, but the worst of the dissent is fading. The suspicion aimed at Rosita lessens, the angry glares turning away. Tara’s words have calmed them, at least for now. “Not a leader, huh?” Rosita murmurs, resting her hand on Tara’s arm as the Hilltoppers disperse.

“I do have my moments,” Tara murmurs back, but she blushes slightly with pride as peace returns to the community. “Come on, let’s get you set up.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rosita is perfectly willing to take - and was expecting - a trailer, but Tara pulls her towards Barrington House, hopping along towards the towering mansion at the crest of the hill. “You sure?” Rosita asks as Tara crutches slowly up the gradually steepening slope of the hill, pausing to catch her breath for a moment. “I don’t wanna invade your house…”

“‘Zita, I invited you here, you’re not invading.” Tara pants, sweat beading on her forehead as she gasps for breath, the cool breeze blowing through her hair. “You should stay here anyway.”

“Why?” Rosita questions, resting a comforting hand on Tara’s shoulder as she struggles to get her breath back. She’s never been the most athletic of the group, but it’s still disconcerting to see her breathless so easily. 

Tara flushes, and it’s not just from exertion. “It’s not bad if...if I just want you close, is it?”

And then it’s Rosita’s turn to flush pink, switching her gaze abruptly from Tara’s warm brown eyes to the dirt under their feet. “No. It’s not bad at all.”

She can hear the smile in Tara’s voice as they continue up the hill. “Then come on, gorgeous.”

She pales at the set of three brick stairs leading up to the massive front doors, freezing on her crutches. “I _really_ need to start thinking these things through.”

“I’ll help you,” Rosita chuckles, setting the crutches at the crest of the stairs before pulling Tara’s arm over her shoulder. “Can’t have you falling down and knocking your head again, so soon after we got you back.”

“I don’t think I could take another hit,” Tara agrees sagely, hopping with Rosita’s help towards the first step. “I had about four and a half brain cells _before_ the coma awhile back, and my track record with head injuries hasn’t improved much since.”

“A whole four and a half?” Rosita teases, dodging Tara’s mocking swing as she hands her back her crutches at the top of the steps. “Jeez, you were better off than you looked.”

“You’re a bitch,” Tara mumbles, smacking Rosita’s shin with a crutch and very nearly taking herself down in the process. “Dammit, these don’t make great weapons.”  
  


“Maybe stick to your knife,” Rosita suggests, following Tara down the hallway to what she remembers as once being Gregory’s office. It’s definitely Tara’s now - there’s a few packets of Ramen noodles awaiting preparation on the desk, a thin layer of dust on absolutely everything, and a cot stuffed in the corner, poorly made-up with a rumpled blanket. “Late night?” Rosita questions, nodding towards the cot.

“Couple of ‘em,” Tara mumbles, glancing over at the cot as well. “I started sleeping down here when we first started getting concerned...wanted to be as close as possible if anything shitty went down. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you camp out in an office.”

“Are you staying down here again?” Rosita asks, perching on the edge of the desk, swinging her feet as she takes in the sprawling shelves of books and maps. 

“Probably,” Tara admits, slowly, painfully maneuvering herself into Gregory’s overstuffed desk chair, propping the crutches against the wall behind her. “I’m behind, weeks behind. I have to get caught up, and getting these new trade deals - what?”

Because Rosita is smiling, unable to stop herself, because Tara’s clasped her hands in front of her the way she always does when she’s being serious and her nose scrunches adorably as she studies the mess of papers and charts on her desk. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be unable to bite back a smile. “Nothing. You’re just cute when you’re thinking hard, that’s all.”

And it’s Tara’s turn to blush, pink reaching to the very roots of her dark hair at the compliment. “I...um. Um. Thanks. Yes. Okay. Um.”

The stuttering is possibly even cuter than the nose wrinkling, and something warm burns in Rosita’s chest as Tara struggles to form words, tapping her fingers nervously on the edge of the desk. Rosita leans back, pulling her dark hair out of its tight ponytail and shaking it free, combing her fingers through the silky tresses to work out tangles at the bottom. “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

“Okay - um - you don’t have to,” Tara stammers out weakly, still struggling to get ahold of her tied tongue. “Bed. Upstairs. Like, we have one. Well, actually several, but I was thinking of one in particular - not mine, it was definitely not mine - I mean, unless - oh, God, I didn’t mean it like that- why? I mean, you staying? Why?”

Biting back a laugh at the way Tara rambles on, face still flushed, Rosita lowers the pack on her back, kicking off her boots. “To make sure you sleep. And to keep you company.”

Tara opens her mouth to respond, but shuts it just as quickly, her face twisting with pain. “What’s wrong?” Rosita asks immediately, hopping off the desk to go for her painkillers. “I know that look.”

“‘S my leg,” Tara mumbles, chewing hard on her abused lower lip. “Well...kinda…”

“What’s it feel like?” Rosita scoops up the orange tube, shaking out the next dose of small white pills into her palm. 

“Like it’s burning,” Tara murmurs, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, tracing the gauzy bandages. “But there’s nothing there to burn...God, that’s fucking _weird-_ ”

“Not really,” Rosita offers, handing her the pills and a small water bottle. “Phantom pain is pretty common in amputees. Acetaminophen is supposed to help.”

Tara cracks a smile, but just barely, her eyes troubled as she gazes deliberately at a spot just above Rosita’s head. “Is there anything you _don’t_ know?”   
  


“I was Army, remember?” Rosita reclaims her perch on the desk, studying a map of the state salvaged from an old tourist brochure from Barrington House. “I deployed a few times, Afghanistan, Iraq, Kuwait...a couple of my friends were amputees. I’ve heard pretty much every complaint under the sun.”

“You never talk about the Army,” Tara says suddenly, turning her gaze back to Rosita. “Like, even for your standards of talking about your old life, you never talk about it.”  
  


“Yeah, well…” Rosita mutters, tapping her fingers against the wood of the desk. “I didn’t talk about it much before the shit hit the fan either.”

“Tell me about it now?” As Rosita’s eyes snap to hers in an instant, a sharp retort springing to her lips, Tara seems to shrink a little, fading bruises standing out in sharp contrast to her pale skin. But her voice doesn’t reflect it at all, as light and audacious as usual. “Come on, gorgeous, give me something to think about besides the fact that my nonexistent leg is on fire.”

And for a moment, Rosita thinks she might have found something that she can, indeed, refuse Tara, but then she raises an eyebrow, giving her that cocky, “I’m-hot-shit-and-you-bet-your-ass-I-know-it” grin, and it’s far more effective than any pleading would be.

_“Fine,_ ” Rosita huffs, kicking out at the air with one socked foot. “I hate you, I hope you know that.”

“No, you don’t,” Tara counters, and she’s still got that eyebrow raised, and Rosita’s blushing all over again. “You’re from Texas, right?”  
  


“Venezuela,” Rosita corrects, abandoning all pretense of interest in the map. “But I was stationed in Texas after I got my citizenship, yes. Fort Sam. I had mechanical training and got promoted to a vehicle technician when I made sergeant. I did six months in Iraq, a year and a half in Afghanistan, and I had been home from a year in Kuwait for about three days when everything happened.”

“That’s where you learned about bombs?” Tara guesses, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. 

“IEDs,” Rosita answers, tugging on a loose string from a rip in the knee of her jeans. “First experience with explosives, yeah. I was part of a battalion each time I went out...I fixed the trucks, shit like that. I was twenty-four when I went to Iraq, I’d only been a sergeant for about two months when they told me I was going, I was in the U.S. alone...those guys pretty much became my family. Which meant it was pretty damn rough when one of the trucks hit a landmine.”

Tara swears under her breath, reaching out a hand tentatively. “Jesus, ‘Zita, I’m sorry…”

“Half of my group down in thirty seconds.” Rosita doesn’t take her hand, instead pulling aside her flowing hair to reveal a patch of lumpy scar tissue against her scalp. “I went into the wreckage to look for survivors and my hair caught fire. The burn got me sent home...on a plane full of caskets.”

Tara now looks positively horrified and rather regretful for asking, but Rosita doesn’t stop. She’s not sure if she can. The dam has broken, and memories pour out in words she’s dwelled on for years but never spoken aloud to a single soul.

Of course it’s Tara she’s finally talking to. Tara has been a lot of _finallys_ for Rosita. This is just another on the list.

“Afghanistan was worse. You know about two thousand soldiers have been killed there?” Tara shakes her head slowly, transfixed. “My best friend was one of them. We got stuck in a pretty bad spot, we were cornered, people were dropping like flies...he stuffed a letter in my hand and charged out with a grenade, blew the guys shooting at us and himself in the process. Turns out the letter was to his wife and three kids. He never even met the baby. I went back for a week, flew with him on the Angel Flight, dropped off the letter, and went right back. After that I quit getting to know people.”

The words hurt. Tara stares at her, her perfect lips slightly open with a trickle of blood dripping down her chin from where she chewed through the scab again. She never was good at subtlety. “I never talk about the Army.”

Tara manages a nod, horror sucking the color from her face. “I - yeah, I get that.”

“If you saw who I used to be, you wouldn’t recognize me,” Rosita murmurs, gazing out the bay window into the slowly sinking sun. “I don’t talk about my old life because that life is _dead,_ and I don’t miss any of it. Not one moment.”

“Nothing?” Tara breathes, and her eyes are so wide as she gazes in shock at Rosita. “There’s _nothing_ you miss? Not a person, a neighbor, a _goldfish?_ Anything?”

“Nothing,” Rosita says, and she means it.

That night, she dreams of the desert. Memories of gunshots crack in her ears in the dim blackness of sleep. She can feel the sun-baked grainy sand slipping through her clenched fist, the hot Afghanistan sun beating down on her head. Blood oozes from the corpse slumped next to her, the body of Staff Sergeant John Anderson who stuck his head out to get a view of the situation and was answered with a bullet between the eyes. She trembles against her will as the blood reaches her other hand, squeezing her eyes shut, praying to just _wake up_ in the back of the truck or in her bunk at the barracks or in her bed at home. 

“You with me, Rosie?” And even if she didn’t know his voice from thousands, wouldn’t recognize the faint traces of a Venezuelan accent to the ends of the earth, Charlie Mendoza is the only person in the world who ever called her Rosie and got away with it, and the last traces of Barrington House fade away and she’s snatched back to the desert, her eyes snapping open to be met with Charlie’s deep brown ones.

“With you,” she manages, and her voice is full of fear, practically choking on it. She’s been cornered before, been in bad places before, been practically ass-deep in battlefield quicksand, but it’s never been as bad as it is now and as little as she has to live for, she doesn’t want to die. 

“Good girl,” Charlie answers, touching her shoulder with his massive gloved hand. He dwarfs her, six-foot-three to her five-foot-six, built like an ox while she’s got the frame of a gazelle, bulk and brawn to her wiry strength. And as bad as it is, with her heart pounding so hard she can hear it in her skull, blood racing through her veins and making her head spin, her fingernails cutting into her palms around the handful of sand, having him beside her adds just the tiniest sense of horribly fake security. “I need you to take something for me, got it? Keep it safe.”

And then there’s an envelope in her hand, pressed tight into her stiff fingers, and she mechanically tucks it away under the Kevlar vest that feels like a sixty-pound bag of wet cement sitting on her lungs. “Good girl,” he says again, and it registers that the hand on her shoulder is trembling. “Hang on to that. Make sure it gets where it’s going. You’re gonna go home, Rosie, I’m sure of it.”

“You are too,” she insists, even as her voice shakes and bullets whiz through the air, cutting down the men of her battalion like the reaper’s scythe, and she knows in the pit of her heart that this is the last stand for both of them. “You promised me, Charlie, that I’d get to meet your kids, you’ve got the baby back home-”

“Rosie, I love you, but shut up.” He claps her shoulder and stands behind the wall of sandbags, crouching to dodge the hail of bullets. “I’ll see you on the other side, kid.”

And it clicks in that moment what he’s going to do and she screams, screams louder and shriller than she ever has before, her throat tearing as she lunges after him, but it’s too late and he’s already gone and she has just enough sense left in her to stay behind the sandbags and drop to cover her head. 

And a white hot wave of fire tears through the wall of sandbags with an unearthly crash, like God has struck the earth with lightning, and the scar on her scalp is burning, burning, and everything else is burning too-

Her eyes snap open and she’s bolt-upright on the couch, her blanket in a heap on the floor beside her, struggling to regain the breath the explosion snatched from her lungs. Tears prick her eyes as she gasps for breath, bathed in moonlight from the window.

“Hey, hey, easy,” someone murmurs, and Rosita’s eyes snap around to see Tara kneeling by the end of the couch, almost hidden in shadows. “I tried to wake you up, but you just kind of flailed...I figured I’d better leave you alone before you fell off the couch.”

Rosita manages a breathless nod, the worst of the adrenaline rush fading away into a dull ache at the memories. “How’d - how’d you get over here-?”

“Hopped,” Tara replies. “Hopped on one foot. I almost fell several times. Not recommended.”

She’s in no mood to smile and settles for another nod, glancing away from Tara towards the window. The moon is waning now, maybe a little more than half visible in the inky black sky. Studying the stars helps her heartbeat slow. There’s so many of them now that pollution no longer fogs the sky. 

“‘Zita?” Tara asks softly, resting a hand gently on her arm. Her hands are warm, calloused from years of hard work. Short nails, long, delicate fingers. “You kept saying...you kept calling for someone named Charlie. Is that your...your friend you told me about earlier?”

Rosita nods for a third time, slumping back against the armrest to stare at the galaxy of stars. Tara hums softly from the back of her throat, leaning her head against the armrest. “I have them too, you know. Bad dreams. Been a lot worse recently.”

She manages a questioning noise, still not ready to talk. Tara seems to take that as interest and shifts closer, her hand still resting on Rosita’s arm. “My mom dies in a car accident. Not that one so much anymore. Had it every day for months when I was sixteen. Started three days after I got the phone call. My niece gets bit and she screams for me and I’m not there. Still get that one at least once a week. Still wake up feeling guilty every time. My sister gets swarmed and it’s my fault she’s there. That one comes a lot too. My dad turns and tries to rip my face off. Can’t shake that one...almost every day. And now I get variations on Alpha and the Whisperers. I get those every damn day. Sometimes I wake up two or three times. Sometimes I just relive what happened again. Sometimes it’s - it’s Carol. Sometimes I’m on a pike. Sometimes-” Tara’s voice catches and her hand tightens around Rosita’s arm. “Sometimes _you’re_ on a pike. Doesn’t matter. I haven’t slept through the night in years.”

“How do you do it?” Rosita whispers, and her voice is hoarse from gasping as she lets her head fall back. “How do you keep smiling, how are you so happy, how are you so _good,_ how?”

Tara sighs heavily, a dark cloud floating above her head. “I don’t. I’m angry and I’m scared and I feel like I’m becoming worse and worse by the day. But I can’t give up on happiness. If I do, I might as well blow my brains out, because that’s the first step to not being _alive_ anymore. And I think about...I think about what my dad wanted me to be. Who he knew I could be. And I try my best to make him proud of me.”

She sounds like she’s going to cry, and Rosita’s close as well. She doesn’t know what to do or say or how to fix the mess they’ve made between them, but she does know that being alone sucks.

The couch is a little narrow, but with her arms around Tara, the both of them fit just fine.


	4. Epilogue

It’s comfortable. That’s the best word Rosita can think of to describe it.

Those who were there before the separation remember the poorly-kept secret of their relationship, and rumors start to buzz through the Hilltop. Rosita lets them. There’s no shutting them down anyway, and she doesn’t mind. As rumors go, being Tara’s lover isn’t a lie that bothers her.

She misses Alexandria less each day. Tara told the truth about the ultrasound equipment, and an image of the baby inside her is soon tucked into a pocket of her pack. There’s only about two months left now, and Rosita is finally starting to feel ready.

Barrington House is home now. She shares a room and a bed with Tara without hesitation when she asks. She rises with the sun streaming in through the glass window and wakes up with Tara by her side.

Tara walks better now. Earl crafted her a pair of new crutches; the braces for her arms make it easier for her to walk, especially on the stairs and slopes of Hilltop. She turned down his offer to fit her a prosthetic - they don’t have the technology to make anything more than a stiff placeholder and extra weight only drags her down. She misses it, Rosita can tell, but not so much anymore. She’s adapted, if only by force.

She and Tara wake up beside each other and live in a house together and lead Hilltop together. It started with a few questions, then a few requests for advice, then a brainstorming session together, and now Rosita is as comfortable in Tara’s office as Tara herself. 

It’s comfortable, it really is, and Rosita is happy. But something still feels empty in her chest, and every day Tara still gives her that funny warm sensation in her heart. Watching her badly paint a mural on the walls of the room they set aside for the baby, a smear of pink paint on her nose and a sparkle in her eyes as she laughs at her own handiwork, makes Rosita blush all over again.

She finally settles at the kitchen table, her heart pounding as she waits for Tara to come back after a few hours out weeding the vegetable plots. Because Tara is a gardener now, and she’s become a damn good one after a few seasons of practice. Finally, the door creaks open, boots scrape against the doormat, and footsteps sound through the entryway, the odd little hopping click that can only mean Tara.

She crutches into the kitchen, and she’s sweaty and dirty and absolutely  _ glowing,  _ and every word of her carefully rehearsed speech evaporates into smoke as Tara hits her with that  _ smile. _

“Tara!” she calls, and her ears prick up as she moves towards Rosita.

“Mm-hmm?”

“Tara, I was wrong,” Rosita manages, and her face is flaming as the words spill from her mouth. “I was wrong to end it the way I did and I was wrong to not give you a reason why for so long and I was wrong to end it at all. Being with you was the best damn thing that ever happened to me, and I spent six years doing everything I could to try to get over you, and I  _ can’t _ , because I love you, and I wish to  _ God  _ I’d never left.”

Tara doesn’t say anything, but her mouth is hanging open in surprise, a slight pink flush coloring her cheeks. Rosita barrels forward, determined to finally spill everything that’s been brewing inside her for so long into the void between them.

“You make me happier than anyone else ever has, not Gabriel, not Abraham, not - not Charlie,” she continues, and now her eyes are starting to itch from unshed tears. “And if you wanna give me another chance...I promise I’m never going to leave again.”

It takes Tara’s brain a moment to catch up, her mouth flapping soundlessly like a fish. Finally, she shuts her mouth firmly, stepping closer to Rosita until they’re only inches apart. Her breath is warm on Rosita’s skin, sending goosebumps rushing down her arms as she exhales softly. 

And then she’s cupping Rosita’s face in her hands, the crutches falling to the side. “I have been waiting,” Tara murmurs, and Rosita can’t keep her eyes off her lips. “For six years to hear you say those words.”

The kiss is soft and slow, lips barely brushing. Rosita brings her hands to Tara’s hips to hold her steady, breaking into a smile as Tara giggles with pure ecstasy, deepening the kiss. It’s been years, but she still tastes the same. Her hips curve the same way under Rosita’s firm grasp. That annoying strand of hair still escapes from behind her ear to tickle her nose, making her puff a little in annoyance to blow it out of the way once more. 

Six years later, this is still her Tara. And Rosita will never forgive herself for nearly throwing away the best thing to ever find her.

They finally break apart to catch their breath. Tara is grinning with kiss-swollen lips, her eyes sparkling as she tucks that strand of hair away again. “So, what are we gonna do now, gorgeous?”

“You’re gonna keep kissing me,” Rosita orders, already pulling her in for another one. “I haven’t kissed you in six years and now I’m not going to stop for another six.”

Tara chuckles, running her fingers through Rosita’s loose dark hair. “I could go for six years of just you and no one else. I was starting to think this would never happen…”

“It should have been sooner,” Rosita swears, and then she kisses her again, their lips crashing together, and they fit together so perfectly six years might as well have never passed.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The baby comes a little early, about a month and a half after. Tara is there for every second of the birth, even if she does go a little pale at a few moments.

It hurts. It hurts more than anything has ever hurt in her life. Rosita screams and cries and begs and crushes Tara’s hand in her own. She’s drenched in sweat and shaking and it just doesn’t end.

Until it does and Siddiq, who rode up from Alexandria to help with the delivery, places her baby girl in her arms and all the pain is nothing but a distant memory. She cries again, and Tara laughs and lets the baby squeeze her finger and play with her hair when she finally takes her so Rosita can sleep for the first time in forty hours.

She calls her daughter Socorro. Socorro Mariana, and then she smiles at Tara and makes her third name Lillian, and Tara has to take a moment to keep from crying. But she smiles through the sniffles and glistening eyes, smiles wider than she has since she first found out there was going to be a baby, and crushes Rosita in a hug.

She doesn’t have to ask Tara to become a parent with her. She steps into the role as naturally as breathing. One day, Rosita wakes up late and goes to Coco’s room to find Tara by her crib, clinging to the rail for support, fully absorbed in telling their daughter the story of how they met on the road to D.C.

_ Their  _ daughter. She wondered if Gabriel was who she wanted to raise her baby with. And she knew immediately he wasn’t. And she knows just as strongly that Tara is.

She backs out of the room quietly, careful not to break the moment. It’s always been hard for her to love. But loving the two people in the room behind her is the easiest thing in the world.

She always wondered how Tara could have so much joy, no matter what crumbled down around her. Now she knows. Love is the answer. And it took her six years, a few failed relationships, and nearly losing the person she cares for most to figure that out, but now that she has, she’s more at peace than she’s been since she was a child. 

“I loved your mother from the moment I laid eyes on her,” Tara’s voice drifts through the open door and Rosita smiles, because this is home, and it’s not like anything she ever imagined it would be, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world.


End file.
